🎵 “Let’s Get Physical…ly and Psychologically Ill…” 🎶

So… I guess when I was a kid I really liked the Olivia Newton-John song “Physical.” I genuinely thought it was about working out.

But now it’s just SUPER weird when my father posts the video to his Facebook page and tags me.

Uhhhh… Ahem…

🙋🏻‍♀️

Dad?

That song’s about screwing. Like…A LOT.

Could you maybe not?

“That’s what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.”

I just noticed that Guy I Dated for a Minute has RSVP’ed “yes” to a mutual friend’s holiday party I also said “yes” to.

Whatever, fuckface — I ain’t scared.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to spend the next 3 weeks getting pretty and practicing ignoring douchebags. Because that’s what Jesus would do.

(I’ve realized recently that whole thing messed me up more than it should have. But screw it, that’s what therapy’s for. Let’s dance, Psyche.)

“Ugh! What is your childhood trauma?!”

So I went to therapy, and we ended up talking about childhood, which, no matter how, “I’m an adult, I’m not dealing with childhood” I am, apparently childhood can fuck up your shit and stunt your development and make you a goddamn weirdo as an adult, so now we have to talk about it and I almost cried twice and FUCK crying, crying is for teenagers and women who watch Lifetime and also fuck fuck fuck don’t wanna don’t wanna don’t wanna.

*pant* *pant* *pant*

Ahem. WHAT stunted development…?

No, thanks, I only eat air and cognitive dissonance.

My family, over the course of one 4-hour gathering: “Look how fat Aunt So-and-So got. And her husband’s no better, he’s about to keel over any day, he’s so big … Look at that woman on TV, she’s too heavy to be wearing that dress … Have you ever seen that show, My 600-Pound Life? So disgusting, I’d just stop feeding them all that junk if I were their caregiver … Hey, Smug, do you want some kielbasa or some cheesecake?”

Ummmmm… CHRIST the fuck, no. My surprise that I made it through life without an eating disorder is oddly filling.

Mo’ mommy, mo’ problems.

Bwah ha ha… “Throw some soft cheeses into the mix, unless you’re insecure about your weight because she sure mentioned that, too. You know what, you are going to need that cheese. And all the wine.”

My personal recent Mom favorites:

  • “That’s a great length for a shirt. It covers your butt.”
  • “This totally-the-opposite-of-your-hair color/style would look great on you!”
  • “If you were going to have kids with anyone, I’d want you to have them with [Ex], because he’s smart.” (<– That one was 3 weeks ago. We broke up 3 years ago.)

Cheers, y’all!

Via Reductress: 6 Wines that Pair Well With Having Just Gotten Off the Phone with Your Mother
wine

You know…sometimes you can just NOT say things.

Via Huffington Post: Public Food-Shaming Is The Insidious Type Of Street Harassment No One Is Talking About20140724-110802-40082515.jpgI debated posting this, because SOMETIMES I wonder if all this hand-wringing about bullying/shaming is overkill and maybe we all just need to toughen up a bit.

At the same time…people are fucking awful and I can’t believe they say these things to another human being.

And I’m not gonna lie, I still remember my mother’s coworker asking “Why are you so fat?” when I was a kid, or a neighbor telling me I didn’t need another doughnut because I was “big enough.” I was like 10. Shit stays with you. (Yes, they were assholes, and their opinions don’t matter to me, and I’ll eat a goddamn doughnut now if I want to, LIKE AN ADULT. But…it stays with you.)

So… I don’t know. Maybe don’t be a dick? That’s sort of my point here.

P.S. I left the ad for Breyer’s Gelato in my screen grab of that image, because how hilariously perfect is that?

Eat a dick, Mom — they don’t have carbs!

I am, by all appearances, a fully functional adult and a contributing member of society.

Until my mother invites me to like “The Belly Fit Club” on Facebook. Then I’m 12 years old being told my burgeoning lady-gut is “just baby fat”… but also that I should avoid sugar and carbs.

Whatever, lady. I’m adorable. Belly fat and all.

Presenting Her Highness, Princess Crankypants

Oh. Well, apparently I have deep-seated issues with being called “Princess” by a romantic prospect. Gotta love a fun and unexpected (funexpected?) fit of rage.

Maybe I’m just bitter that I don’t have a tiara and a big, frilly dress. Or maybe my dad calls me Princess, so it’s creepy. (See also: I’m no longer an 8-year-old girl, and I’m pretty fuck far from a princess.)

“I’m sexy and I know it.” Well, I know it TODAY, at least…

I’m sure there’s a size and shape a woman can be where my grandfather WON’T see fit to comment on it. But I have not yet found it. All of us are either “too thin,” are “losing weight” and should “keep it up,” OR have “put on a few pounds.”

It starts when you’re about 10; end age to be determined. (Grandmom is 83, so…not yet.)

Thanks, Granddad. You wanna kick in some cash for my next therapy session?

I don’t know how it’s even possible I still find this stuff remarkable. This is a family that regards weight loss as a “bright side” of having cancer. The fact that I manage to have more body-confident days than body-conscious days is a goddamn miracle. (A miracle I often fight myself for. But a miracle all the same.)